The Burning Pen

A Turn for the Better
by Ruth Solomon

The story content is adult in nature and can contain graphic sex and violence.  Those under the age of 18 are asked to leave this site immediately.  You are not welcome here.  The author is not responsible for those under-aged who view these works.

Disclaimer: All recognizable characters belong to JKR. All situations are mine. No $$$ is being made from this fanfic.
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Chapter 48 ~ Easing Toward Paradise

The next morning, a sullen Hermione had a solitary breakfast in her kitchen. She didn't cook but had a house elf deliver her a light meal. Then she showered and dressed, pulling her hair back in a tight ponytail and donning a pair of plain black robes, socks and trainers. As was required, she wore nothing but her underwear underneath, a pad securely placed in her knickers. On the second day her flow was always heavy although she was less crampy. The potion the professor provided took care of those nicely. But she was still in a mood as she marched into his study.

"Pro . . . master?" she called rather impudently, "I am prepared to be abused!"

This wasn't the most mature attitude to have, but Hermione couldn't help it.

When he didn't answer, she called again.

"Master, I'm here, ready to start my apprenticeship. I thought you'd like to start out with a bit of browbeating to warm up?"

There was still no answer and Hermione realized she was wasting her sarcasm, as the wizard wasn't here. She walked back into her quarters and exited through her private entrance and walked down to the Potions classroom. It was unlocked.

She entered and walked down to the Potions master's lab. Sure enough, he was in there, setting up bowls and utensils. The basilisk head lay on the counter, covered by a light sheet. Hermione's heart leapt in her chest in reaction at the sight of him carefully laying out an assortment of knives with different blades, his hair swinging slightly as he almost obsessively placed them in proper order from large to small, carefully making adjustments in the layout so they were equally spaced. Hermione steeled herself.

"I'm here, master," Hermione said, "and ready for the ensuing cruelty."

Snape looked up at her in surprise.

"Good morning, apprentice," he said to her softly, straightening.

Hermione snorted.

"Good morning? Isn't that a bit courteous for someone who is supposed to be a total bastard? I was certain a snarl of greeting was in order," she told him, frowning. "Or at least a 'get to work, you insignificant peon.'"

Snape worked hard not to show he wanted to chuckle. Hermione was so pissed off at him and her age was definitely showing. She was just too honest to use subtlety to show her anger, such as giving him the silent treatment or pretending to be the attentive apprentice with plenty of overt false groveling ala Igor. It appeared blatant sarcasm and goading was the order of the day.

Actually, the wizard was delighted that she was courageous enough to address him in such a manner. Most wouldn't. They'd be terrified of his wrath.

He folded his arms and arched an eyebrow at her, his eyes resting on her mouth for a moment, Hermione flushing as she remembered their passionate kisses the night before . . . before he ruined the mood. She scowled back at him, and drew in a breath, ready to launch another stream of sarcastic commentary.

He held up his hand.

"Before you waste any more one-liners, I'd like to inform you that I've taken your advice and decided to wait until your time has passed and we have . . . have consummated our feelings for each other in a physical manner before formally starting your apprenticeship," he said delicately.

"You're going to wait until after you shag me?" Hermione asked him with a smile, effectively shattering any delicacy he attempted to display.

He shook his head slightly.

"Yes," he replied, "however, I would like to request that you find a word other than 'shag' to describe our relations. It makes me feel rather uncomfortable, alluding to your youthfulness rather than your maturity. I'm not a sixth year, Hermione. I don't 'shag.'"

Hermione gave him a devilish little smile, happy again, although still feeling a bit vindictive.

"Well, I suppose I can rephrase the question. You're going to wait until after you: poke me, bang me, boff me, bone me, bonk me, diddle me, dip your wick, do me, give me one, knob me, get your oats, pound me, or ride me? Any of those are fine substitutes for 'shag.'"

Snape stared at her.

"You are a very naughty little witch, Hermione Granger," he breathed, trying not to react to the string of erotic little euphemisms she'd given him. He was a man after all, and dirty references had the usual effect on him, particularly coming from Hermione's mouth.

"Too naughty for your own good. How about a term more novel? Such as 'make love?' We will wait to start your formal apprenticeship until I make love to you."

Snape's dark eyes now had a bit of heat in them. He couldn't help the way he looked at her after that delicious little stream of descriptive terms. He was aroused by them.

Hermione's brown eyes also heated up at his response. It was so sweet, so moving. It was clear that the wizard felt something wonderful for her . . . something beyond the lusty little scenarios she had tossed at him.

"Make love to me?" she repeated softly.

"Most definitely," the wizard said, his silken voice wrapping around her like a verbal caress. "Love will be present from beginning to end and beyond end, Hermione. It has always been present."

"Oh, Severus. You say the most beautiful things," she gushed, preparing to launch herself at him and snog him senseless, previous wrongs all but forgotten.

He held up his hands to fend her off. Now was not the time for snogging, as welcomed as it would be. He had to maintain some aspect of being the grown-up here. Snogging like a randy teenager in his lab would definitely mar that image.

"Now, none of that witch. We are in work mode, if not apprentice mode and you have much to do," he told her, removing the sheet from the basilisk head. "I've saved the best part of the beast for you to dissect. You must remove the brain, the eyes . . . complete with eyestalks attached, the nasal passages, anvil and hammer, venom sacks, and teeth to start with . . ."

He couldn't have cooled Hermione down better if he had saturated her with ice water. He stood up, picked up a saw and handed it to her, stepping back a bit as she stared at the tool in her hand.

"You'd better get some gloves," the wizard said softly, smirking a bit as she mechanically did as he asked.

Not only was Severus Snape good at creating incentive, he was quite talented at suppressing ardor as well. Hermione tentatively approached the basilisk head, eyeing it and hefting the saw uncertainly.

"Start sawing above the eyes, careful not to embed the teeth of the saw into the flesh beneath once you breech the bone," he instructed, pulling up a stool a little distance away and sitting down.

Hermione drew in a breath, gripped the muzzle of the creature and went to work.

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By the time Hermione finished dissecting the basilisk head, with an hour off for lunch, her apprentice robes were full of holes from the fluid and Snape had to attend her skin with a very powerful healing potion on several occasions until she learned to be more careful with her cutting and gouging. Her basilisk robes would have protected her, but, although Snape had not yet started her apprenticeship training, he was harder on her than he usually would be. The best way to learn to handle caustic items was through being exposed to them. This lesson would serve Hermione well concerning other ingredients.

Now the remains of the head lay wide, gross and gutted on the table, split and turned nearly inside out, the insides reddish green and raw looking, the eye sockets stark and empty. In addition to what Snape had already requested, Hermione had to harvest and split the tongue and cut out the small ovals of meaty jowls, which were considered a very expensive delicacy in some lands, similar in danger to consuming Fugu or blowfish because the meat was so close to the venom glands.

Hermione had been forced to change her gloves several times during the process, since the gore was horrible and the knives and pliers kept slipping. She was achy and tired as well. Pulling out the fangs had been quite the chore and the Potions master didn't help once. Each tooth had to be pulled out in entirety, without being cracked or damaged, requiring a cloth to be applied to the tooth itself, then gripped by either pliers or vise grips, and twisted carefully while pulling downward. Hermione was perspiring by the time she got the first tooth out, and there were quite a few to remove, the hollow fangs being the most difficult.

"Put some elbow grease into it," Snape said by way of encouragement from the stool.

Hermione thought she might like to apply some elbows, but not to the teeth as she twisted and tugged away.

When the ingredients were carefully stored and put away, and the workspace cleaned, a very tired Hermione turned to look at Snape.

"Today I experienced the hardest potions work I've ever done," Hermione said to him, plopping down on another stool.

Snape arched an eyebrow at her.

"How does it feel?" he asked her.

Hermione thought about it.

"Satisfying," she responded.

He nodded.

"Remember that feeling, apprentice. You seldom get to experience it in the beginning," he told her. "The most apprentices feel is overworked. Come, I'll order dinner for us."

"Dinner sounds good, but I'd like a shower first. I perspired buckets," Hermione told him as they exited the lab.

"Very well," Snape replied, following her to the Potions office and watching her pull the torch to enter his study as if she'd always stayed there. He smirked at her familiarity. As far as the witch was concerned, this was Hermione's house now.

It was, and would be for the next four years.

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Hermione showered, washed her hair and felt human again as she pulled on a pair of comfortable sweats and a tea shirt. It had been quite a day and she really was satisfied with her work. But what was more important, Severus had taken her wishes into consideration and changed that stubborn mind of his. It was a victory of sorts. He really did care how she felt.

And what he said. He wanted to "make love" to her. Oh gods, that was so romantic, and the perfect response to her sarcasm and teasing. Snape was right, she had purposely been naughty with him. There was something delicious about talking to the Potions master that way, knowing that he wanted her and dangling his desire for her before him like bait.

Hermione Granger was a natural tease.

The moment she left her bedroom she smelled a delicious, savory scent in the air and nearly floated into the kitchen by her nose. Snape smirked, knowing he was nigh invisible as the witch settled in at the table, her brown eyes scanning the small simple spread.

Snape had decided on having something that was normally fall or winter fare, but he had a taste for it. On the table were two bowls of curried pumpkin soup, a spinach salad with mango chutney dressing and a crock pot of beef curry ready for self-service. It could pass for a light summer meal.

"Curry!" Hermione exclaimed. She enjoyed curry on occasion and hadn't had any in ages.

"I hope you don't mind," Snape said to her. "I had a taste for curry."

"Not at all," she gushed. "I love curry."

Snape gave her a half-smile. They appreciated similar foods. That was a plus.

Also on the table were a pitcher of ice water, a pitcher of milk and a small pitcher of pumpkin juice. Hermione noticed Snape had a bottle of Cobra beer next to his plate. Some people drank wine with it, but the wizard preferred the rich lager to wine when enjoying curry.

Hermione pulled the pumpkin soup closer, tasting it. The blend of onion, pumpkin, spices and coconut literally danced on her tongue and she sighed with pleasure.

"Oh, this is good," she breathed, ladling spoonful after spoonful to her mouth.

Snape had to agree. The spinach salad with chutney was delicious as well, and the curry . . . superb. Hermione poured herself a large glass of milk before diving into the curry, knowing she'd need something to combat the heat. But it was a wonderful meal all in all, and both wizard and witch were quite satisfied.

"Oh, that was delicious, Severus," Hermione said when they finished. She wore the look of the sated.

"Would you like dessert?" he asked her, pleased she had enjoyed his meal choice.

"No, no dessert," she told him.

The couple sat in silence for a few moments, not sure what to do now. Hermione knew what she wanted to do. Snog. Or kiss rather. No doubt the wizard found the term "snogging" immature as well.

"Could we sit in front of the fire in your quarters for a bit?" she ventured.

"Certainly. Do you like poetry?" he asked her.

"Sometimes," the witch replied, "but a lot of the time it comes across as rather fluffy and self-absorbed, as if the poet was more focused on writing pretty words rather than getting a meaning across. And I hate abstract poetry."

"I enjoy concrete works myself. Let us go to my study. I'll read you a few sonnets if you aren't opposed to it," he said to her softly.

Hermione thought Snape could probably read the ingredients off the back of a soup can and make it sound like poetry with that incredible voice of his. The wizard rose and walked around the table, solicitously pulling her chair out for her. Hermione suddenly blushed rather shyly as he gestured for her to into his quarters.

She did, and he followed, walking to the far wall and picking over several books before he withdrew one, then joined her by the fire.

Hermione listened mesmerized as the wizard read her romantic sonnet after sonnet, but her favorite by far was one by Pablo Neruda, Sonnet XVII. Snape read it with such passion and reverence, it was all she could do not to melt into a sticky puddle in his armchair. She stared at him, spellbound as his rich tones rose and fell in the quiet study, firelight flicking over him, making him seem almost unearthly as he read:


I don't love you as if you were the salt-rose, topaz
or arrow of carnations that propagate fire:
I love you as certain dark things are loved,
secretly, between the shadow and the soul.

I love you as the plant that doesn't bloom and carries
hidden within itself the light of those flowers,
and thanks to your love, darkly in my body
lives the dense fragrance that rises from the earth.

I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where,
I love you simply, without problems or pride:
I love you in this way because I don't know any other way of loving

but this, in which there is no I or you,
so intimate that your hand upon my chest is my hand,
so intimate that when I fall asleep it is your eyes that close.


Snape closed the book and looked over at Hermione, who was staring back at him.

"Quite a lovely sonnet," he said softly.

Hermione agreed as she rose, walked over to him and removed the book from his hand, placing it on the small table between the chairs and settling in his lap, placing her arms around his neck and looking into his dark eyes.

"That's not all that's lovely," she breathed, kissing him passionately.

For the second night in a row, they consummated their passion the only way they could, with passionate embraces and kisses, mouths locked to longing mouths, delving, exploring and wishing to go deeper, wishing to be immersed in each other, desire, a bittersweet torment snaking through their bodies and coiling in the pits of their stomachs, hungering, needing . . . wanting.

No length of passing time is more maddening than a short period of time that seems to go on forever. But, time did pass, seeming to drag its heels along the way and at last Hermione's guest moved to more fertile grounds, freeing her for the loving that was to come.

The couple worked in mostly silence in the lab on that day, their interactions a bit awkward and strangely formal. There was a sense of surrealness that permeated the air. Tonight would be the night they came together, and the normally unshakable Severus Snape was feeling more than his share of performance anxiety. He didn't show it, but . . . Merlin . . . it was there.

Hermione, for all her longing, was very nervous as well, cutting her eyes toward the silent wizard every time she thought he wouldn't see her, not knowing he didn't have to see her, he could sense her, feel her deep inside himself every time she clandestinely looked his way.

He didn't need to look at her. She'd been locked in his mind's eye for decades.

Tonight, he'd release that image and for the second time of many times to come, know her reality.

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A/N: Ah, now that's the ticket. FINALLY. Lol. Well, I've finally done it. Had Snape reading poetry to Hermione. lolol.  It had to happen sooner or later. Fluff requires it. Anyway, I love that sonnet by Pablo Neruda, although I was tempted to go with "How Do I Love Thee" by Elizabeth Barrett Browning, which is also very beautiful.  But I went with Pablo's piece.  I hope you found it as lovely as I do.  Imagine Snape reading that. :::melt:::  Anyway, thanks for reading.

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